The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4 eBook

LOVEL (rising)
For once you are mistaken
in your man.
The deed you wot of shall
forthwith be done.
A bird let loose, a secret
out of hand,
Returns not back. Why,
then ’tis baby policy
To menace him who hath it
in his keeping.
I will go look for Gray;
Then, northward ho! such tricks
as we shall play
Have not been seen, I think,
in merry Sherwood,
Since the days of Robin Hood,
that archer good.

ACT THE FOURTH

SCENE.—­An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL (alone)
A weight of wine lies heavy
on my head,
The unconcocted follies of
last night.
Now all those jovial fancies,
and bright hopes,
Children of wine, go off like
dreams.
This sick vertigo here
Preacheth of temperance, no
sermon better.
These black thoughts, and
dull melancholy,
That stick like burrs to the
brain, will they ne’er leave me?
Some men are full of choler,
when they are drunk;
Some brawl of matter foreign
to themselves;
And some, the most resolved
fools of all,
Have told their dearest secrets
in their cups.

SCENE.—­The Forest.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

LOVEL
Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.

GRAY
Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than
as a poor disguise.

LOVEL
Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.

GRAY
Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words,
I attach you,
Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King’s
name.

LOVEL
And of taking part in the great Rebellion against
our late lawful
Sovereign, Charles the First.

SIMON
John has betrayed us, father.

LOVEL
Come, Sir, you had best surrender fairly. We
know you, Sir.

SIMON Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known
than trusted. I have seen those faces before.
Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites,
to John? I think ye rank above his footmen.
A sort of bed and board worms—­locusts that
infest our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon
its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill
all the corners of my brother’s once noble heart.

GRAY
We are his friends.

SIMON
Fie, Sir, do not weep. How these rogues will
triumph! Shall I whip off
their heads, father? (Draws.)

LOVEL
Come, Sir, though this shew handsome in you, being
his son, yet the law
must have its course.

SIMON And if I tell you the law shall not have its
course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father;
shall such things as these apprehend a man? Which
of ye will venture upon me?—­Will you, Mr.
Constable self-elect? or you, Sir, with a pimple on
your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only
badge of loyalty?